LITMIR.BIZ

      Stony the Road

      Copyright © 2019 Harold J. Recinos. All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical publications or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher. Write: Permissions, Wipf and Stock Publishers, 199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3, Eugene, OR 97401.

      Resource Publications

      An Imprint of Wipf and Stock Publishers

      199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3

      Eugene, OR 97401

      www.wipfandstock.com

      paperback isbn: 978-1-5326-7440-2

      hardcover isbn: 978-1-5326-7441-9

      ebook isbn: 978-1-5326-7442-6

      Manufactured in the U.S.A. April 4, 2019

      The Foreigner

      you departed for a city

      in another country to a

      place you heard of once

      beneath the low hanging

      branches of a tree. you are

      in the caravan of brown faces,

      among the mothers with infants,

      the youth undoing shackles, the

      broken elders hardly able to walk

      and the disabled children never

      mentioned in American news who

      get pushed across the Spanish speaking

      borders in old wheelchairs. in the

      evening around holes with dancing

      flames, the strangers with whom you

      walk discuss the hounds barking at the

      border, the soldiers in confused wait, the

      High-priests so expert at looking the other

      way and the English only people who never

      imagine the dreams of Christ. we shall

      wait in the darkness you left behind hoping

      to touch your hand someday, we will pray

      in the old village church to the obscure

      heaven that one day will make a way for

      us, and the candles in front of the blessed

      Mother will be kept burning until we are

      certain you have crossed the river, safe.

      on that day we promise to tell your story

      like a sweet biblical tale.

      We Shall Overcome

      we shall with courageous faith

      stand in the public squares to

      face despisers with gargantuan

      displays of love. where the wind

      blows, we shall march to overcome

      the boundaries, the pain, the fear,

      the inequalities of these splintering

      years. we shall overcome with the

      simplicity of tenderness and God’s

      sublime tears. after all the waiting,

      we shall overcome in countless ways

      the penetration of nails into our dark

      skin, the ignorant mockery of the

      Spirit above and the butchery of

      Christ’s injured love. we shall overcome

      the spit in the face, the rubbish they

      say and the theologies of hate also

      easily preached. we shall overcome

      with the colored Christ who came

      to give his life for us. soon, and very

      soon, we shall overcome with the truth

      that hung on a tree.

      Wake the Dead

      listen to the drums beating

      out the sounds of the centuries

      beseeching, the tune of snapping

      chains, the squealing of tyrants

      removed by the nameless, the

      revolution that moved into a

      White House built by African

      slaves, these blood-soaked days

      on the impatient earth hosting the

      reckless bully with a vacuous brain

      who relentlessly throws shit at life.

      hear the poor he puts in cages, the

      huddled masses to the gale tossed,

      the children from across the border

      crying about freedom in loathing

      disrepair, the black lives stomped

      by nationalist cops, confederate

      marches full of ignorant white hate,

      and America face down in a shameful

      shallow grave. what became of liberty,

      justice and equality on these American

      tongues? What future is prepared now

      in the name of Anglo-Saxon superior

      myths? what will become of our sons

      and daughters when greedy old men

      and women are done disemboweling

      the people they call filthy illegals and

      spics?

      Blasphemy

      I saw you last night in a

      tear still talking of things

      you love, no less certain

      of the world turning ever

      so slowly in the direction

      of God, recollecting out

      loud the humblest times

      at a kitchen table sharing

      hard bread and talking of old

      women in the big church who

      pray on its steps with disfigured

      hands reaching out to heaven. I

      saw you in the tiny drop of water

      shared, in your whispered words

      telling a truth from someplace

      else you say can stop arguments

      in the world and you the whole

      time

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